Mom:I wish we could see you. Maybe you need a break. You could come out West and spend some time with your dad and me. Say goodbye to the beach and immerse yourself in the mountains.
I almost want to chuckle at how selfish her statement comes across. How I’m the one who isn’t well, and yet, she expects me to be the one to travel. The fact that neither one of them have been back to visit me since they left materializes in full force.
Me:It’s fine. Even if I wanted to, I can’t travel right now.
“Hello?” Lance says from next to me, drawing my attention away from my phone. It buzzes again, but I click the button to dim the screen and shove it into my bag. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry, no,” I mutter, feeling like I’m on a swing that’s constantly being pushed back and forth with no one there to stop it.
“What word am I not allowed to say?”
He turns onto the highway, the same one that’ll get us the short distance to the outpatient therapy building. For the next ten weeks, I’ll be there every Thursday at three p.m. After this week, I’ll be driving myself for two reasons. One: sitting in close proximity with Lance right now is too hard. I can already feel the resentment building inside of me, and I don’t necessarily like how it tries to make itself known at every corner when we’re alone together. Two: Lance won’t be afraid of me bailing if he sees me attend today’s appointment. I know he’s itching to get back to giving his full attention to his clients and listings with the way he’s constantly checking his phone whenever he’s with me.
“Accident,” I say. “That word shouldn’t be in your vocabulary.”
“Em—”
“No,” I snap, my emotions getting the best of me. I don’t want to hear it from him—from anyone. Him siding with his parents and my doctors instead of listening to me is a betrayal I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to come back from. It links me back to wedding planning, and how he always takes his family’s opinions as the most important. “I can’t listen to you try to convince me this is what I need or that I was out there trying to hurt myself when I’ve told you multiple times how that wasn’t the case.”
“There’s no proof that you were out with a camera. There were no eyewitness reports of beachgoers or the lifeguards seeing you with one. Hell, most of them don’t even remember seeing you, period.”
“So because they didn’t see me, it’s not true?” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my emotions at bay. I’ve kept the strongest ones bottled up in fear that he won’t understand them. The biggest truth in our relationship right now is that he doesn’t believe a damn thing I say. How would life be with a husband who doesn’t properly listen to his wife?
“Not neces?—”
“Well, that’s what you’re saying.” A thought hits me while I pause, hope blossoming that it could be the thing to help him understand and stop thinking I was out there for any other reason than taking pictures. “The man who saved me would have seen the camera.”
“When would he have seen it, Emory? He said they saw your head bobbing in and out of the water as you fought for your life. It’s likely he wasn’t even paying attention to anything else but getting out to you. Not to mention the fact that he also said your back was to the shore.”
My hope turns to ash in the matter of a second—because he’s right. Whatisthe likelihood that he would have seen it? Lance’s points are so incredibly valid that a nasty taste coats the back of my throat, acid from my stomach climbing up and fizzling out.
He flicks on the turn signal and merges off one of the exit ramps, driving in the direction of the hospital. Surrounding it are doctor’s offices, one of which is where my therapist is waiting. The same one I saw when I was still in the ICU—Dr. Dawson Cole.
I can still picture that neutral expression on his face, that sharp jawline, and those glasses that hinted at the possibility of a tender heart.
You’re not crazy,he told me.
I’m still hanging onto that statement, even as I sit next to my soon-to-be husband and silently beg for his understanding.
I’m not broken, and I’m not suicidal.
What happened wasn’t premeditated.
Why doesn’t anyone want to believe that?
Lance clears his throat, readjusting his grip on the wheel again. It’s an indicator that he’s uncomfortable having this conversation; another of his tells I’ve seen too many times to count. “All I’m saying is that no one really recognized you, andthe few that did, they don’t remember seeing your camera.” He sighs. “I don’t want to fight with you. I just want you to be okay.”
A twinge of heartache pulses through me at the thought of losing my Sony A1, but also at his tender words. “I told you it was the one my parents got me.”
“And you know that I don’t recognize one camera from the next. They all look the same to me, and you have too many to count.” That was true. I had a small collection of them, some that I used over the years and others that I found at second-hand shops and collected.
Resentment swirls through. His lack of interest in my hobbies never used to bother me, but in this moment, I’m more irritated than ever. If he had taken an interest in my hobbies, one glance at my collection would confirm my story.
Then again, maybe three years isn’t enough time to get to know someone and their interests.
“My parents would be able to point it out,” I mutter.
“Would they?” His question hits me hard in the gut and brings the truth to light. “It’s been years since they bought that and gave it to you. Do you really think they’d be able to look at a lineup of your cameras and be able to say the one they got you is missing? Jesus, they haven’t even been around. We never hear from them. The only reason you are now is because of what happened.” His words are a perfect reminder I don’t need. I know they’ve been MIA. That pain is present in my heart more days than I’d like to admit.
